Knots

I rest my back against the couch in this
summer living room smelling sort of
of the transitory presence of almost-men,
one of whom is tied to me; myself

noting the idiomatic fingers,
their knots wrapped around a wet
green bottle, bent elbows on slender
knees, brown biceps in short sleeves.

I clasp my rarely painted toes
curled around the coffee table's
edge, glancing sidelong
quickly, knowing again the knots
of cowlick in the dark hair.

Later, tangling my bare young
legs into the soft, ample bed,
I begin to feel the firm press
of ardent skin against my equally

eager skin, our limbs and lips loving
each other into knots,
binding together the throbbing
bursts inside our taut chests.